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But hear, rejoice, stand silent, and adore.
The Persians thus, first gazing on the sun,
Admir’d how high 'twas plac'd, how bright it

shone; 10 But, as his power was known, their thoughts were rais'd;

And soon they worshipp'd, what at first they prais'd.
Eliza's glory lives in Spenser's song;
And Cowley's verse keeps fair Orinda young.
That as in birth, in beauty you excel,
The Muse might dictate, and the Poet tell:
Your art no other art can speak; and you,
To show how well you play, must play anew :
Your music's power your music must disclose;*
For what light is, 'tis only light that shows. 20
Strange force of harmony, that thus controls
Our thoughts, and turns and sanctifies our souls:
While with its utmost art your sex could move
Our wonder only, or at best our love:
You far above both these your God did place,
That your high power might worldly thoughts de-
stroy;
That with your numbers you our zeal might raise,
And, like Himself, communicate your joy.
When to your native Heaven you shall repair,
And with your presence crown the blessings there,
Your lute may wind its strings but little higher, 31
To tune their notes to that immortal quire.
Your art is perfect here; your numbers do,
More than our books, make the rude atheist know,

* Imitated from Alleyne's Poetical History of Henry VII.

“For nought but light itself, itself can show,
And only kings can write what kings can do.”

That there's a Heaven, by what he hears below.
As in some piece, while Luke his skill exprest,
A cunning angel came, and drew the rest:
So, when you play, some godhead does impart
Harmonious aid, divinity helps art;
Some cherub finishes what you begun, 40
And to a miracle improves a tune.
To burning Rome when frantic Nero play'd,
Viewing that face, no more he had survey'd
The raging flames; but, struck with strange sur-
prise,
Confest them less than those of Anna's eyes:
But, had he heard thy lute, he soon had found
His rage eluded, and his crime aton'd :
Thine, like Amphion's hand, had wak'd the stone,
And from destruction call'd the rising town:
Malice to Music had been fore'd to yield; 50
Nor could he burn so fast, as thou couldst build.

PICTURE OF SENECA DYING IN A BATH,
BY JOI&DAIN.”
AT THE RIGHT HON. THE EARL of ExETER’s
AT BURLEIGH HOUSE.
*HILE cruel Nero only drains
oWs. The moral Spaniard's ebbing veins,

By study worn, and slack with age,
How dull, how thoughtless is his rage 1
Heighten’d revenge he should have took;
He should have burnt his tutor’s book;
And long have reign'd supreme in vice:
One nobler wretch can only rise;
'Tis he whose fury shall deface
The stoic's image in this piece. 10
For while unhurt, divine Jordain,
Thy work and Seneca's remain,
He still has body, still has soul,
And lives and speaks, restor'd and whole.

* Jacques Jordain was born at Antwerp in 1584; was a disciple of Adam van Oort, but was indebted to Rubens for the principal part of his knowledge in the art of painting: “He painted with extraordinary freedom, ease, and expedition; there is a brilliancy and harmony in his colouring, and a good understanding of the Chiaroscuro. His composition is rich, his expression natural and strong, but his design wanted elegance and taste. He studied and copied nature, yet he neither selected its beauties, nor rejected its defects. He knew how to give his figures a good relief, though frequently incorrect in the outlines; but his pencil is always excellent, and for a free and spirited touch, no painter can be accounted his superior.”—Pilkington's Dictionary of Painters. He died in 1678, aged 84 years.

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AN ODE.

ILE blooming youth, and gay delight & Sit on thy rosy cheeks confest, Thou hast, my dear, undoubted right - To triumph o'er this destin’d breast. My reason bends to what thy eyes ordain: For I was born to love, and thou to reign.

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But would you meanly thus rely • , On power, you know I must obey? Exert a legal tyranny; And do an ill, because you may” 1C Still must I thee, as atheists Heaven adore; Not see thy mercy, and yet dread thy power?

Take heed, my dear, youth flies apace; As well as Cupid, Time is blind: Soon must those glories of thy face The fate of vulgar beauty find: The thousand loves, that arm thy potent eye, Must drop their quivers, flag their wings, and die.

Then wilt thou sigh, when in each frown A hateful wrinkle more appears; 20 And putting peevish humours on, Seems but the sad effect of years: Kindness itself too weak a charm will prove, To raise the feeble fires of aged love.

Forc’d compliments and formal bows Will show thee just above neglect: The heat with which thy lover glows. Will settle into cold respect: A talking dull platonic I shall turn; Learn to be civil, when I cease to burn. 30

Then shun the ill, and know, my dear.
Kindness and constancy will prove
The only pillars fit to bear
So vast a weight as that of love.
If thou canst wish to make my flames endure,
Thine must be very fierce, and very pure.

Haste, Celia, haste, while youth invites, Obey kind Cupid's present voice; Fill every sense with soft delights, And give thy soul a loose to joys: 40 Let millions of repeated blisses prove, That thou all kindness art, and I all love.

Be mine, and only mine; take care Thy looks, thy thoughts, thy dreams to guide To me alone; nor come so far, As liking any youth beside: What men e'er court thee, fly’em, and believe, They're serpents all, and thou the tempted Eve.

So shall I court thy dearest truth, When beauty ceases to engage; 50 So thinking on thy charming youth, I'll love it o'er again in age: So time itself our raptures shall improve, While still we wake to joy, and live to love.

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